


hemlock

by Scarlet_Ribbons



Series: icarus [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Jensen, Breathplay (Choking), Daddy Kink, M/M, Prostitution, Rough Sex, Top Jared, Violence- bruising kink, anxiety medication, mentions of sexual abuse of a child, mentions of underage pill consumption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 22:48:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10706757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet_Ribbons/pseuds/Scarlet_Ribbons
Summary: Jensen's got a honey in every state.Texas is the only one he bothers remembering.





	hemlock

**Author's Note:**

> I am the worst person in existence. I have two WIPs for which I am desperately racking my brain for inspiration, and I KNOW they're there. If you want to comment on my hiatus for those two stories, please comment on THOSE stories, not in my SMPC contributions (that being said, I know I'm awful). 
> 
> \--
> 
> Now that that's out of the way, here's my SMPC contribution! It's really different from my usual style, as you're about to see.
> 
> Thank you so much to the wonderful theboys for helping me through this process!  
> (and to my lovely ShadowBiscuit for being there for me as I suffer) 
> 
> One other thing before I let you loose: the story of Icarus is, to put it VERY briefly, that Icarus enjoyed the feeling of flying with his wings so much that he soared too close to the sun, which melted the wax holding his feathers together and caused him to plummet to his death. It's referenced in this story a couple times. 
> 
> (Also, it wasn't until posting that I realized that Icarus happens to be the name of Jensen's dog as well. Go figure.)

Jensen's got a honey in every state.

Texas is the only one he bothers remembering.

\---

The wallpaper is different this time around. Motel walls peel nine out of the ten times, but hey, maybe it's a special occasion 'cause there's no peeling this time. The deep beige and baby pink clash, like Jensen's new Prada purse and the blush pink of his cheeks when he's trying especially hard to be embarrassed.

His eyelashes're starting to clump together wet, black mascara smearing just along his eyeline, and he only just manages to keep from yawning as Montana tosses a crumpled pillow cover off the bed. Neat freak with a journal full of dates, he wraps used condoms in tissues before throwing them away. He's responsible for two rings, one necklace, and a bracelet composed of chunky jade butterflies 'cause Jensen reminds him of the fleeting affection of a butterfly.

Montana lives in a nowhere city with exactly one bank and a jewelry store next door; Jensen imagines half the store is tucked in dollar bills in his purse thanks to him. It's roughly 600 miles from Belfry, Montana to Boise, Idaho, where Jensen spreads his legs for the pawn shop owner. Idaho never asks where the jewelry comes from, just shoves a wad of dollar bills in Jensen's stockings and his dick down his throat. Not much for small talk and even less for foreplay.

He swivels; Montana writhes under him, buttons quivering and threatening to pop as latex catches the pink of Jensen's insides. Fingers finds the inside of one of Jensen's thighs and pinch, an insistence that he move faster, and Jensen gyrates harder, hoping to. He stares at the _Welcome to Montana_ poster on the wall until it blurs from his up-down movements, until Montana ruins another condom and peels out.

This time, he gets an anklet with three different charms. He keeps the horseshoe and sells the rest.

\---

The car's humming under Texas, but Texas is in power; his muscles flex under miles of scorched-gold skin, lather swiping over the blistering metal surface of the car as it cools. Jensen got a knee rested against the top of his boombox, Texas' baseball cap keeping the sun out of his eyes. Britney's blaring and everything's right.

Jensen tongues the fifty-cent swathe of gum in his mouth and watches Texas wring out the rag into the bucket he's holding for him, his breath snatched up into Texas' mouth when they crash together. Texas's hands tuck into Jensen's jean shorts, fingers so long they extend past the hem of Jensen's shorts and press against his upper thigh.

An annoyed honk has Texas shaking, spraying water on Jensen, and Jensen shakes his head, a chunky turquoise bracelet rattling on his wrist as he trills his fingers at the guy in the front seat watching them. Texas's a sight for sure, tank hanging low to expose a collarbone like glass, but Jensen knows that all the pink he's wearing is an eye-catcher for sure, too. He likes attracting men in for Texas; it keeps business going.

This was how it mellowed into the second stage, their relationship; Jensen fretted down his nails wondering if Texas still found him attractive, liked to show off pretty colors to gauge Texas's interest. He worries at his wrist and lip as Texas swings water droplets from his dark hair and lets out a rumble of a sigh.

The second is explosive like the first. The third is explosive like the first. The fourth is explosive like the first.

He changes _Texas_ in his mental datebook to _Jared._

\---

The barren break room of Virginia's gas station is sticky-hot, like whatever's inside Jensen that keeps 'em coming back. Like the bubbling insides of peach cobbler, thick and sweet, and the smell of rotting fruit brings all the fruit flies to the yard.

Jensen's eyes are drawn to the cloud buzzing idly above the overripe apples, Virginia's hips bumping erratically into his and warm fingers curled into his messy-cropped sun-streaked blonde. Virginia's kinda shit at dirty talk, got himself closeted so deep in denial that he ended up married to a honey he spends seven days a week at the gas station to get away from. Jensen noticed the glossy corner of a gay porno peeking out from under his chair and figured he could get free gas out of Virginia with just his prettiest smile.

"Ugh, god, you're. So." Virginia tries, then adjusts the rubber and slip-slides awkwardly back in. "Your hole's so good, not like that _bitch_ Lindsey's-- she's Catholic now, apparently. Changes her religion every week -'n won't even let. Let me fuck her..."

Jensen stifles a yawn. The heat's soaking into him, sunlight streaming warm and pooling against the hollow of his back, and he's floating down the gutter that's Jared's mind. Jared, who brings his words to their knees, who doesn't fucking stutter.

_You're a fucking wet dream, Jen, such a slut for my dick, hunh? Fuckin' choking on it like you haven't taken this and worse, c'mon, we both know that's not true. You can play innocent with everyone, but not with me, and not when I want you gagging._

Jensen startles; Virginia's fingers are bitter-stale in his mouth, parting and grasping at his tongue to gracelessly shush him. Sometimes his wife comes in, and she starts screaming, wailing for him at shrillest her voice can be, as if she knows he's balls deep in boy-pussy in the backroom. It's one of those days; Virginia's embarrassed by Jensen, like he's worried that if Jensen talks, it'll somehow make the fucking more real or some shit. Jensen doesn't exist to validate Virginia's existence.

They're usually embarrassed by him. _Turn around, slut,_ like they don't wanna look at his face, like looking at his face will somehow freak them out into realizing they're fucking a boy. Just a child. He's got them muttering prayers and dabbing sweat with already soaked handkerchiefs and muttering the Lord's name as they hang on feverishly to Jensen's thighs. Stubble that scratches up the insides of Jensen's legs and sometimes they even cry, insecure, needing Jensen to be coy and feminine for them to feel better about themselves.

Jensen's their hemlock. He makes their breathing stutter, makes 'em tremble, makes them throw up in a puddle of their own shame and insecurities as he cruises down the highway with a full tank and a fuller heart. Looks in the rear view mirror and dreams of Texas.

\--

It's dry-warm. The sky's a searing blue.

Jensen's shaking down to his boots. Trembling, he's so scared. It's funny because no one's ever wanted him in their lives long enough to meet someone they care about, but Jared's always been the exception.

Jared does the talking. Jared's Newton's first law personified; when he gets started, he keeps going and going until he's acted on by an outside force, and it's no different when he's talking about his aunt Junie. June Padalecki, she doesn't say much, stays curled up against the back of her wheelchair with two thoughtful, wisp-soft hands feathered over her cane. Jensen likes to hold them but doesn't think he's worthy, especially because she might as well have been royalty, he’s so dirty. But Junie, she murmurs that Jared's hands are always too warm, and Jensen's are so cool, like ice cubes in lemonade, and she doesn't let him go.

Mostly she just stares out the window at the Japanese cherry blossom petals drifting aimlessly by, while Jared chatters on about June's younger days, when she was a photographer dreaming of baby Hollywood starlets, when she started getting all _frisky,_ and Junie either prods Jared with the butt of the cane or smiles shamelessly, like the slow uncurling of a leaf.

"If she had more energy," Jared whistles, and June's holding Jensen's cool, dirty hands, and there's puckering lemonade and sticky fudge on the nightstand, he's so overwhelmed he could faint, "You oughta see her flirt, Jen! She'd say _helloooooo, Jensen,_ like sugar syrup, when she's appreciating someone and she looks at 'em all up-down- Oh, don't roll your eyes, you do that. You know you do that."

It's normal and it hurts. It's normal and it hurts. Jensen's thinking of a time when he came home one day and crammed his sticky chocolate Easter bunny into his cheeks until they bulged, until chocolate streaked the freckles on his cheeks and his father licked the last traces of the candy from his skin. He feels ill when he sees the fudge, but not later when he's licking it from Jared's fingers as Jared fucks him, not when he whimpers out a _Daddy_ and Jared just rolls with it.

Jared doesn't fucking stutter; his hips only work hard, dick driving up into Jensen in long, wet, dragging thrusts that make Jensen's eyes roll back. Jared takes what Jensen throws at him, doesn't have demands, just asks for Jensen the way he is and opens him up the way he is and dives right into that pure, unadulterated Jensen, and even though Jensen thinks unadulterated him is sick, it still belongs to Jared. All of him does.

\--

California’s beach boy tan. He’s a big-shot, CEO in Orange County with a house that aspires to touch the clouds, and Jensen’s gotta arch back to see the top, where the burnt-orange clay shingles bake in the sun.

California eats escargot in bed, slurps the garlic-butter up from the shells with Jensen on his lap like an exotic pet and eats strawberries coated in sugar-champagne syrup. He asks for the most; he likes to leave purple-blue splotches along Jensen’s thighs. He never breaks skin; blood makes him queasy.

The beating isn’t new to Jensen; his daddy always used to paint him, use him as a canvas, hit him blush pink, burnt red, sickly green, eggplant purple, royal blue. Jensen’s got a palette that beats Crayola.

His daddy liked the cigarette marks, too. He liked his Jensen mottled and bruised, pink-mouthed and wide-eyed. Jensen knows the feeling of freckled cheeks resting against weathered fingers, daddy marking dimples into his cheeks with his thumbs.

His mother’s silence, deafening.

California’s got a lot of bottles, full of pills for various ailments, and he treats Jensen like he’s ignorant to the concept of anxiety. Like he hasn’t seen Prozac and Paroxetine strewn under the medicine cabinets, hasn’t seen the pale slip of his mother’s throat struggle to swallow pill after lullaby pill.

Like he’s never felt his mother’s finger, soaked in Goose, curl pill after pill against Jensen’s tongue, like he’s a lamb being primed for slaughter. They go down easy, slick, until they’re both nulled, quiet and splayed across the plush white carpet, commiserating silently.

Maybe that was her way of numbing the guilt she felt for feeding her dearest Jensen, precious Jensen, starry-eyed Jensen to her husband like a sacrifice.

Jensen snitches the Prozac and a bottle of Patron when he departs from California that evening, because old habits die hard.

-

Jared doesn't have a lot. He gives Jensen bracelets woven of grass and flower crowns, long, dexterous, gear-sketching fingers just as gentle when threading flowers into tiny slits of connected stems together.

Jensen's a pretty flower, threaded into the Jared's life.

And sometimes, when Jared's got so little on him that he's scraping by on pennies, he'll just spread Jensen over the grass nearest to wherever they meet. Jared counts quarters when he buys loaves of bread, careful, thoughtful, a dollar bill curled around his index finger (that dollar bill's got more of Jensen's ass than some of his lovers have) from his anxiously rolling it up, but Jensen's free. So Jared crams as many samples in his pockets as he can, takes and takes and takes Jensen in that greedy, needy way of his. Something about it strikes Jensen, the way Jared ravishes the things he can't get enough of, the free things. The sunlight, the grass. The lungfuls of sweet, clear, small-town air that he takes, and that's how he takes in Jensen. Greedy, sweet lungfuls. Jared's not delicate when it comes to things within his reach. He's delicate when he's slicing bread into thin-thin square sheets, trying to ration, but he's ravenous when he's grabbing and sinking his teeth into Jensen, marking him up until he mottles purple and blue ( _just like his daddy)_. Jared just can't get enough of him, and Jensen craves being ravished like that.\

“Found these,” Jared says one starry evening, fingers cocking the box of Prozac toward Jensen, and Jensen’s numbed out and doesn’t care that Jared went through his stuff, he’s got nothing to hide and he wants Jared in all his most private nooks. “You doing okay?”

And it’s weird, because no one’s asked Jensen if he was doing okay before this, but Jared’s always rolled with all of Jensen’s _fucked-up_ \- _ness_ and so the words tumble out before Jensen can stop them, all,

“I want you to bruise me.”

“Kay,” Jared says, immediately, and his expression shutters, mouth evening out at the corners. There’s gold in his eyes. Copper, mica, aquamarine. Jared’s got his own palette. “The pills?”

“Those first.” Jensen says, evenly, watching Jared for a reaction. It’s like he wants his mother and father at once, and he thinks maybe Jared knows that. Jared’s a chameleon, he blends into whatever Jensen wants, whatever Jensen needs. Malleable and unflinching. “First the pills, then I want you to throw me at the wall and fuck me up. _Daddy.”_

Jared’s already got one hand curled around the Patron, glass grinding across the counter as he drags it in toward himself. The liquid drips down past his fingers even as he crooks them at Jensen, _c’mere,_ and Jensen’s crawling forward and sucking down Jared’s fingers, licking the alcohol from them, and the pill just slides down.

It’s numb after that, Jensen’s lulled and ready, and his back hits the wall and Jared follows and then he’s locked between them, legs ready and open. Alcohol and spit slicked fingers corkscrew him open, Jared’s dick like metal against Jensen’s stomach, and Jensen doesn’t recognize this feeling, the feeling of his stomach boiling.

He used to feel cold inside, weak with dread and overflowing with tears, cheeks sticky with salt and chocolate, _Daddy, I’m sorry, daddy, I won’t eat chocolate anymore_ , but with Jared it’s like being awoken again.

 _God. He_ loves _it._

Maybe it just took the right person, the right force, because he’s called some of his other providers _Daddy_ but it never felt right. They called him sweet things and pampered him and made him feel precious, but maybe he needs this, the brute force.

Jared doesn’t ask if he’s okay anymore, because he doesn’t need to.

Jared’s fingers wrap around his throat, because that’s how Jensen’s going to be treated now, like something Jared barely wants to touch. Jared’s applying enough pressure to bruise the swan-slender neck, calling Jensen a slut, and Jensen’s mewling _daddy, daddy._ His cheek is pressed hard to the wall, teeth scraping up against it as Jared’s dick splits him open, and he can barely see, but this might be the most alive he’s ever felt.

The palm of Jared’s hand strikes hard into Jensen’s ass, unspoken command for Jensen to spread his legs until his joints ache and tremble and he’s struggling. Jared makes him hold it anyway- _“I’m not going to be spreading your legs for you, slut, you can do that all on your own” -_ which is exactly what Jensen expects from his daddy.

Jared fucks him something brutal, until tears stream down Jensen’s cheeks, until Jensen’s wailing, _sorry, I’m sorry, sorry Daddy,_ between each thrust, each punch of Jared’s dick into his pretty-pink insides. He can feel so much of Jared, the smack of his balls up against his rim, the palm of his hand leaving prints the size of Coke cans seared into Jensen’s tender cheeks.

Jared’s teeth bite into his neck, every bit as controlling as his dick, tongue spiraling out over the marked territory and leaving Jensen sticky-wet. He’s gone a couple days without shaving, probably hasn’t had time, and the mica-sharp shadow of stubble scrapes into the back of Jensen’s neck.

“You feeling fucked up enough, _princess?”_ Jared drawls, his hand gripping a whole handful of Jensen’s burning backside. “Daddy’s little darling, I think I like you most in _purple,”_ he growls, his words liquidizing Jensen and rocking him to his core, his knees pulled up against the wall and bruising pretty for Daddy, for his daddy-

It takes another hard thrust to tear Jensen’s insides, and he keens as he comes. He’s so noisy, he’s noisy and sobbing and just a mess of color, the way his daddy likes him. But this time, it’s all of Jensen’s own volition, and he thinks he can taste Jared when he’s filled up, overflowing, dripping from all ends. He gags as Jared’s hand trails back from his throat and down the ridges of his spine.

“I’ve got you, primrose.” Jared coos, and Jensen lives and breathes on the fact that Jared nicknames him the colors of his bruises. This is the aftercare, the part unfamiliar to Jensen, and he wonders if he’s going to be able to ask Jared to press his thumb into the tender place on his inner thigh. He likes the flare of pain, the spark that sears through the lethargy. All he can do is let out something like a tired moan, and Jared moves him to the bed, splays him out like a work of art.

He’s Jared’s canvas, a masterpiece of needy victim. Marked up and splotched with color, streaks of white.

It’s the most loved he’s ever felt.

\--

At some point, when he’s with one of the Carolinas- he always gets them mixed up, because they look rather alike. Those types of faces that get lost in a haze of Jared, the type of smell that gets lost in the smell of Jared’s cheap cologne, the type of voice that gets swallowed up by the mere memory of Jared’s husky, whiskey-honey drawl -he wonders if he’s going to be able to do this forever.

He’d stay with Jared but he’s not so selfish; in fact, he’s stopped charging Jared- Jared gives him what he so desperately needs, satisfies his most raw and shredded urges, offers nothing but his company. Jared wants to take care of him, but Jared can barely take care of himself most of the time. He works, eats, fucks Jensen, sleeps with his knuckles gently stroking up the nooks of Jensen’s spine, wakes up before Jensen and goes back to work. He barely has time to tuck a piece of buttered, crispy toast between Jensen’s teeth and a kiss against his forehead before he’s off, not to return until the evening.

So it’s not that Jared cares- he cares. Maybe too much, if he’s giving up the last of his time to take Jensen down to the sum of his parts.

Carolina gets impatient at the lack of reaction from Jensen and nearly gives himself an aneurysm trying to get him to moan. Jensen makes a theatrical sound just to appease him, before going back to daydreaming.

June Padalecki screamed when she saw him last, marked up like a Picasso with his candy-pink fingertips curled into Jared’s jeans; he didn’t mean to make her cry like that, he’d never made anyone cry before, certainly not out of concern the way June did. Neither of them thought it was worth mentioning that Jared had done it and that Jensen needed it like water, though Jared did recommend, once June was done crying, that they keep the bruises where she couldn’t see them.

Jensen didn’t really mind that, because all he could think about was how much she loved him to cry like that over all his colors.

He wonders if they talk about him when he’s gone, but he isn’t kept in the dark too long, because June tells him one firefly-studded evening that Jared never shuts up about him. On the days she sees him, that is; how lonely she gets, with him working all the time. Jensen strokes the folded wrinkles of skin against the back of her hand with the same fingers he’d entrenched in Jared’s curls earlier that day, says, “he just wants to provide. For you. Me. Us.”  
  
“Us,” she says. She likes it. He does, too. _Us._ Family. “He’s like a dad, isn’t he?”

Jensen chokes, not for the first time that day. That turtleneck does more than keep him warm. “Mmhmm.”

“He’s the only one left in the family worth a damn,” she drawls, the same stretched-out vowels as Jared, cooler than a mint julep. “And sometimes I think that if I don’t tether him down, he’ll spin right out of control. Icarus in the sun, that child.”

Jensen thinks about the way Jared bruises him these days, all these places where June can’t see, where she won’t ache at the sight of Jensen, and thinks maybe Jared’s the only one with any control at all out of the three of them.

“You know the story of Icarus, child?”

“Sure,” Jensen smiles, leans in close. “I’m not just a pretty face. Sometimes-” He looks around, then stage-whispers, “Sometimes _I read.”_

She finds this spectacularly funny, hoots with laughter until she hacks. “I bet you do, you beautiful child.” Her palm, grooved and warm, rests against his cheek. “Don’t you ever change, Jensen, you hear me? Don’t you prove yourself to anyone.”

The words stay in his heart, warm and sleepy, rouse sometimes when he’s with Jared. Jared, who’s never needed an explanation. Jared, who hits him senseless, spanks him raw, punishes him for the sugar and lets him call him _daddy_ without needing a single prompt other than Jensen just. _Asking._

Carolina paints him in sticky stripes, pulls out and jerks a thumb toward the two paper bag full of beef jerky, canned goods (Jensen got a can opener the first time), peanut butter, bread, crackers, potato chips, and some donuts. “Food’s in there. Get outta here before the wife gets home, kid.”

Jensen takes the food, but there’s something he’s gotta try, before he goes, something… Like a social experiment.

“Hey.” Carolina looks up, looking at once dull and slightly confused that there’s a human being still standing in his kitchen. “Next time I come ‘round, do you think you could hit me?”

Carolina’s face goes slack, his jaw hanging open for a minute, before his eyes squint and crinkle. Perplexed. It’s not a good look on him. “Hit you? Like… Take a hit? I don’t….” He looks around, fingers twitching the tiniest bit.

“No.” Jensen gulps, and it’s already so … So cosmically wrong, but he’s gotta find out. Rabid curiosity claws its way up his throat. “Could you hit me, hit me? Like… Spank me?”

Carolina’s eyes bug out at this, like he’s never even heard of the concept. Sweat beads along his hairline, and then he licks his lips.

“I… I’m a father, you know,” Carolina manages, squirming, tugging at his collar. “I- I have a son. I could never hit a child. That’s…. _wrong.”_

Jensen flees.

\--

June dies on July 1st, living just long enough make sure she didn’t both live and die in June.

It wrecks Jared, who smiles throughout the funeral, keeps the punch bowl filled and sandwiches stacked on every platter. He works when he’s stressed, stays in motion, light on his feet as he slips in between members of his family he hasn’t seen for years.

His dimples are like hooks in his cheeks, vicious, just like the way he fucks Jensen wet and raw in the pantry before grabbing a two-liter of Sprite and heading back out. Jensen almost didn’t show, not because he didn’t love June, but because he did.

It’s gotta be like a steak knife straight through Jared, who makes a strangled sound when he picks up one of June’s silver plates and finds one of his uncle’s names scrawled across the back, claiming pieces of his beloved aunt before her body’s even lowered into the ground.

Jensen barely just moves out of the way as glass hits the wall behind him, takes instead to smearing the marker name into a blur of red so it doesn’t give Jared an aneurysm.

“Who-” Jared looks invaded, violated, almost paranoid. “ _Who are these people?”_ he asks, coarse like the broken glass littered all over the floor, the crunch in his voice like jaws around Jensen’s throat. He’s worried about Jared, but he’s never been able to worry about anyone but himself, and he’s not sure how to put it into words, but it doesn’t matter.

Jared herds him up into where they used to sit and listen to June talk, fingers leaving pretty red ovals into Jensen’s bicep, and when Jensen closes his eyes he thinks he hears her talking about Becca, her first venture into bisexuality, Becca with the stars in her eyes and the Hollywood sign tattooed on her left breast.

His eyes are kinda wet when he opens them; Jared’s gone, door locked behind him, gone to deal with the strangers on June’s lawn, and the last of her crackling-leaves voice says, _like Icarus, too close to the sun._

Jared’s gonna get burned, but maybe Jensen can save him, maybe. Maybe he can bring him back down to earth.

He knows why he’s up here, anyway. He’s seen the way Jared’s uncles look at him, like he’s the prettiest, most wild-eyed little boy they’ve ever seen, like they’d be the ones watching him from the windows of their convertibles. They want to eat him up, with the same mouths they use to stamp Jared’s apparent ticket to Hell. They talk to his Texas sweetheart with promises of brimstone, condemning him while their lazy eye finds Jensen, sitting pretty. He knows why he’s up here.

When it feels like the house is a fraction emptier, Jensen finds himself wandering back down. The door’s unlocked, of course, Jensen’s never been a prisoner for Jared (against his own will), and it creaks forlornly as he makes his way down the stairs. Wad of steel wool in hand, Jared’s scouring the glass dish, lasagna scraps and watery sauce flushed down the drain. Jensen joins him, sponge tucked in slender fingers as he lines the inside of a wine glass with soap.

 _Drinking his wine, eating his food._ June would have appreciated a Homer reference.

It’s the first time he ever sees Jared cry, the sob a sucked in, wretched sound of air through clenched teeth before it’s gone, hunched shoulders straightening out as Jared scrapes at bean dip soldered to the bottom of a glass bowl. That’s the only sound of grief he makes at all, though his soapy fingers curl against the back of Jensen’s neck, knuckles pressed against his nape and a kiss against his forehead..

He doesn’t say anything else that night and neither does Jensen, but the sounds of scrubbing and the clink of plates and glasses makes it feel like being home.

\--

People like Jared don’t abruptly fall into a lot of money.

There have been… people like that in Jensen’s life, though. Kentucky was one of them, a blonde hunk of Americana with a pickup truck and shoes too big to fill, definitely not with the way Kentucky shirked his responsibilities with an easy smile and hands the size of dinner plates.

Suddenly, daddy has a heart attack and leaves Kentucky a fortune, rendering Jensen completely obsolete, just a blip in Kentucky’s rearview, and that’s fine. It’s fine that Kentucky went from fumbling through foreplay to giving him that look as he pulled his tie on, the weird mixture of pity and repulsion, and the _I don’t know, Jensen, I have to be more responsible now. I can’t… Y’know, be seen. With you._ Jensen knows what can be bought with money, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t frighten him.

Cutting states out of his life is like sending off little paper boats. He never knows where they’re going to go, or what they’re going to do, or if he’s going to see them again. He just knows that, in the process of leaving more of his heart and soul in Texas each time, he can’t find it in him to go all the way to Maine for fresh seafood and stale dicking in the sand next to an old crab shack sign.

Every time he doubts himself he imagines Jared’s thumb dragging circles along the peaks of his knuckles, imagines the pink-purple of his inner thighs where Jared lay mousetraps for other men. Bruises that make their lips stop upon sight, make them feel inferior to just the prospect of a man who could mark Jensen up so good.

He’s feeling pretty good as he severs the twenty-fifth- Nebraska.

But then Jared falls into a lot of money.

\---

“The thing was,” her executor is saying, remarkably dry as he watches Jared with the straightest of faces, “she didn’t want to say she had all this money, because she knew her relatives would comes after her. Tearing at each other until there was nothing left. Initially, there was enough for all your family members to have a significant share…”

He clears his throat, and Jared stays motionless next to Jensen, who’s already wondering what he’s left behind in Jared’s home that he needs to pack, for when he leaves. Jared’s in the nicest he could afford with his untucked white shirt and black slacks, and this has got him nervous as all Hell. He doesn’t shake when he’s nervous- not Jared.

“...When you were the only one who took care of and cared for her, Jared, she took everyone else out.”

“Hm?” Jared makes a faint sound, like he can’t quite fathom what’s just happened, but Jensen knows it’s true. June with her stories of Venice, Rio, Egypt. Her affairs with baby-faced Hollywood sweethearts, fresh from the womb of adolescence and eager to create images for themselves.

“You got all the money, Jared.” The executor says after a moment, when Jared continues to play statue. “She wants you to go to school for engineering and complete your education. A Jensen is mentioned, as well.”

Jensen’s throat works, and he thinks for a bizarre moment that he’s going to cry. He loves that woman and he’s going to cry, just for this one mention-- for his name, being mentioned.

“It says. For Jensen, don’t let Icarus fly too close to the sun.”

“What?” Jared’s shoulders straighten again in puzzlement, even as Jensen’s collapse, buckle inward.  “What does that mean? Jensen? What does that mean?”

All this time he’s been dreaming of being saved, that Jared’s saved him, that being safe is being trusted. He never asks with Jared, he just tells. All he has to do is say, “Jared, mark me up,” and without question, it’s done. No questions about his validity, his origins, a past teeming in dirt and rotting among the earthworms.

But all Jensen can think about now that Jared has money, Jared has lots of money, and now that he has this money, what’s going to happen to Jensen?

He finds out a few days later when he’s packing things up, trying to get out before dawn breaks. Maybe if he can make it to Arizona, or New Mexico, he can figure out how to bring back all the paper boats. He put too much hope on Jared, and how can he stick around now? And it’s not that Jared is too good for him- no, Jensen’s the happiest for Jared. It’s that Jensen’s gotta protect his own heart, too, and he can’t watch Jared walk away, too. He’d rather leave first.

“Jensen.” He’s not sure how long Jared’s been awake, just watching him silently with those topaz-honey eyes, soft green-gold flickering along the edge of his irises. When Jensen sees Jared’s hands resting on the comforter, he remembers Jared’s fingertips shoved up under his chin, against his throat, compressing every breath of air out.

His daddy used to teach him to swim like that; hold him by his wet blonde head under the water, until he started to flail to be let up, oh please let him up, don’t let the black blue eat him up, daddy.

He writhes a little with Jared, too, whose fingertips slide down Jensen’s throat, tipped with peppermint oil and kneading tiny circles into the mushroom-like bruises. Jared’s intent is only to give him exactly what he needs, without the after-trauma and the winded therapy sessions.

Jensen crawls over then, lifts himself ass-first so that Jared’s palms can spread him open. It’s hard enough talking when Jared looks at him, let alone when Jared’s tongue is inside him, but he wills himself to focus as he timidly reveals his fears.

“You’re gonna get tired of me… _Daddy.”_ He choke-sobs out into Jared’s knee, clenching his teeth tight around a mouthful of skin. “Move right past me.”

Jared’s tongue skirts Jensen’s rim, slicking up his insides, and two fingers have Jensen spread so wide open that he’s surprised he’s not just two separate pieces entirely at this point.

“Why do you think that?” he finally says, coolly; Jensen’s heart skips a beat, and damn if he’s not scared like he used to be. Jared’s voice like that, lick of confidence where Jensen is weak-kneed and wobbling, causes him to nearly come right then and there, and he only just holds on as two fingers spread him open, scissoring and crooking inside of him. One of Jared’s free thumbs is pressing against an old bruise, one of at least four pockmarking Jensen’s ass.

“It’s happened before…” Jensen chatters, trembling eagerly when Jared’s palm lands a stinging slap against his lower cheek. “Daddy. it’s happened before,” and fuck if he’s not a mess, an incoherent, slurring mess. He’s not even sure if what he’s getting out makes sense at all.

Jared doesn’t psychoanalyze. When he pulls Jensen back by the hips, right down on top of his dick, he doesn’t ask if Jensen’s okay. Jensen’s so sick of being asked if he’s okay. He lowers himself down hard, lets his spit-slick insides swallow Jared whole, and Jared’s not squeezing his insides gently, no, Jared’s got handfuls of him and he’s yanking him and dragging him back and there’s probably going to be fingerprints scorched into him tomorrow morning.

Jared’s not, “ _you gonna be okay, baby? This too much for you?”_

Jared’s, _“I don’t think you’ve_ got _i_ _t yet, I think you’re down a couple inches, and I think I’m done doing all the work. I think I’m going to let you take those last couple inches_ yourself, _because if you’re really Daddy’s little princess, then you’ll take every last inch and still have the gall to ask for more, now do I make. Myself. Clear?”_  

Jensen takes them, so greedy for it that he’s bucking his hips to push himself down, and Jared doesn’t stop and lecture Jensen on all the _fucked-up_ in him, Jared just takes all that _fucked-up_ and feeds it right back to Jensen, in sloppy, brutal thrusts. Jensen fucks himself on Jared’s dick like he’s downright starved, making sure that his rim catches against Jared’s balls with every downward motion.

Jensen digs crescents into Jared’s thighs with his nails, keening, his cries almost guttural every time the heart-shaped head of Jared’s dick slow-grinds along his nerves, and one of Jared’s hands is wrapped around his throat. Jared’s thumb is pushed up against his chin, forcing Jensen’s head back, and he squeezes tight, sharp and staccato, every time he hits Jensen’s prostate. Jensen loses his breath and his vision all at once, left dazed for a precious two seconds after each thrust until Jared loosens his grip and brings him back down to earth again.

It’s messy and so dirty and Jensen comes right then and there when he feels Jared’s hands curl in his hair and _yank._

Jared gets in two more short thrusts before coming as well, and Jensen’s more or less slumped back against Jared’s soaked through v-neck when Jared asks him to marry him.

\---

When he was tiny, roughly around the time he found out that his daddy’s mean streak was about the size and shape of a bottle of Corona, Jensen didn’t know if he’d ever even have a wedding.

He’d figured there was a lot of fucked up about him- a lot of things he needed, things people couldn’t give him without being too questioning, analytical, concerned. He figured he’d never be able to explain away the pills and the chocolate and the appreciation for all his colors, and that encounters with people would be just that- encounters, nothing permanent. Hundreds of billions of stars, but don’t go too close to any one of them, or you’ll burn, and you’ll fall.

Jared’s not really a star; Jared’s more like a black hole, devouring whatever’s in his path, his gravitational field so intense that all it takes is one pull.

You don’t really see black holes, because they suck in even light, and they get lost in all the other stars around them. Like Texas, one state out of fifty that had one special boy out of all the boys he’s met, and that’s how he got lost in a black hole and came out with a ring on his finger and the first inklings of a dream.

He doesn’t know what he wants to be yet; he knows he can’t shake off what’s happened already, and he’s at the mercy of his own childhood. But he knows, after he cuts that last state out of his life for good, that with Jared, he can be whatever he wants to be. 

Even Daddy's princess.


End file.
